


In Loco Parentis

by non_canonical



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Illnesses, Kidnapping, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-16
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_canonical/pseuds/non_canonical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mummy places the squirming bundle in his arms.  “This is your new brother,” she says, pulling back the blanket to expose a puffy, mottled face.  Mycroft cradles the tiny head, lolling on its fragile neck, and for the first time he realises the power that one person can have over another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to: [mamishka](http://mamishka.livejournal.com) for endless discussions; and to [thisprettywren](http://thisprettywren.livejournal.com) and [thesardine](http://thesardine.livejournal.com) for beta duties. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my fault.

Mycroft pushes open the door with his fingertips, and enters the sanctum of his father's study.   It takes him a moment to locate the light switch.   He approaches the desk and drags the phone towards him, careful not to mark the patina of the mahogany.   His fingers curl around the rectangle of card in his pocket.   He shouldn't need it – he knows the number by heart, despite not having needed it since Nanny McKenzie broke her leg – but there's a twist of worry in his gut that drives him to check the number printed there before he dials.

“Government Actuary's Department.” A woman, young and still new to the job.   “How may I direct your call?”

Mycroft's hands seem to have taken on a life of their own, and he watches them twist the telephone cord tighter and tighter as he waits to be transferred.

“Sherrinford Holmes.”

“Father, it's Mycroft.”

“Mycroft? Is everything all right?”

The screaming resumes, echoing up the stairwell.   Mycroft whirls towards the sound, then his hands clench on the receiver as he hardens himself against his first instinct.   Mrs McKenzie must have done something to set Sherlock off again, but Mycroft's finally steeled himself to have this conversation, and he's not going to hang up now.   “Everything's fine,” he lies.   The howling sets his teeth on edge, and surely his father must be able to hear it, but the phone won't stretch far enough for him to close the door.   He talks a little louder in an attempt to block out the noise.   “I wanted to tell you, I've decided not to go back to school.”

A long pause, and Mycroft remembers why he dislikes talking over the phone: there are no physical clues, only vocal ones, and it's so difficult to identify emotions.

“What's brought this on?”

This time, at least, his father is prepared to listen, so Mycroft says, “It's Sherlock.”

“What's he done now?”

“Nothing.   But I think he needs me here.”

“He's five years old.” Father's voice rises – no longer the rich, deep rumble he's accustomed to – and that's definitely anger in his tone.   “Don't baby him, Mycroft.   He'll grow out of it if you leave him alone.” But Mycroft can hear Sherlock's wailing, and it isn't about to stop.  

“I don't think he will.” He stands a little taller, jutting out his chin even though his father can't see him, but his heart is hammering like he's on a cross-country run.   “Anyway, I've made up my mind.” He cringes at the hesitancy in his voice.

“What are you planning to do? Go to the local comprehensive?” Father laces the word with disdain, and an answering shudder ripples down Mycroft's spine.   “And what about your friends? Won't you miss them?”

He's always been careful to mention his fellow pupils in a way that implies a certain friendship; he's always managed to avoid the subject of why none of them ever come stay during the holidays.   Mycroft needs to say something, but the commotion downstairs is clamouring for attention, and the expectant silence in his ear is making it hard to concentrate.

Father sighs.   “I'm working late tonight, and your mother's prosecuting the Renshaw case.   She's in court tomorrow, so let's not disturb her.   We'll discuss this when we're home at the weekend.”

Mycroft rests the receiver back onto its cradle, and he's careful to return the phone to its accustomed place before he dashes off in the direction of his brother's voice.   He skids to a halt, just across the threshold of the kitchen, his stomach churning queasily within him.   Mrs McKenzie's hands are on her hips in a way that always signals trouble, and she's glaring at his brother.   Sherlock's backed into the gap between the table and the wall, shrieking like a kettle on the boil, skin stretched white across the knuckles of his little fists.

“Stop that right now, young man,” Mrs McKenzie scolds.

Mycroft steps between them.   “I'll see to him.” His soft voice cuts through the chaos; Sherlock's jaw clamps shut.

Mycroft's anxiety tries to fidget its way into his hands, his shuffling feet, but he holds himself still.   He twists his mouth into a smile.   He can follow the woman's tedious moral dilemma in the way her forehead creases, the momentary tightening of her lips, and all the time he just wants her gone.   No doubt she's a perfectly competent nanny, but she doesn't know how to deal with Sherlock.   No one does, no one except him.

Mrs McKenzie closes the door behind her.   Mycroft is careful not to look at his brother; instead, he stares down at the linoleum and he listens.   He listens for what seems like hours – to Sherlock gulping air, to the disturbing absence of activity – while his pulse throbs with the need to act.   His hand twitches its desire to reach out, but he diverts it, occupies it with retrieving the torn and crumpled paper from the floor.   He carries it to the table, closer to the warmth and the mouth-watering smell from the oven.   He smooths the paper out across the battered pine – this morning's copy of The Telegraph – and that explains Sherlock's outburst.

Finally, Sherlock's ragged gasps subside, and the clenching violence of Mycroft's heart begins to ease.   There's a hesitant pressure on his knee.   Sherlock's looking up at him with bloodshot eyes, but the angry flush is fading from his cheeks.   Mycroft smiles down at him.

“I want Mummy,” Sherlock croaks.

“She'll be back on Friday evening.” The same as always.   No amount of wishing is going to change that, but his brother has not yet learnt to limit his expectations.   Sherlock's face crumples, and his lower lip begins to tremble outwards, so Mycroft asks, “What happened this time?”

“I wanted to read about Mummy's case.” Mycroft winces as the boy's words rasp out through abused vocal cords.

“We talked about that earlier.” Well, he'd talked and Sherlock had screamed.   “You can read about that sort of thing when you're older.”

“I took the paper when you went upstairs.” Mycroft should have predicted that, should have realised from the way Sherlock had quieted so quickly, but he'd had other things on his mind.   “Then Nanny found me.   She told me off, but I didn't want to give it back.” Sherlock's arms flail in frustration, and his hoarse voice is turning shrill.   “I didn't know some of the words, and she wouldn't tell me what they meant.” Sherlock rubs at his face, and the heat flares blotchily back into his cheeks.   “And then she said –”

Mycroft skims his fingertips across the back of his brother's hand.   The flinch jolts up Sherlock's arm – a reflexive urge to jerk free – and the answering sting of rejection is almost more than Mycroft can stand.   He's the one who's going to be there for Sherlock; it's Mummy who's decided that a nanny will be an adequate replacement.   Mycroft slides his thumb round to circle his brother's wrist, and the tiny muscles relax into the familiar gesture.   Sherlock's eyes slide up – wide and moist – to meet his brother's, and that strange, rare warmth blooms in Mycroft's chest.   He squeezes the fragile wrist with the gentlest pressure.

“I want you to apologise to Nanny.” Sherlock snatches his hand away.   “If you don't, you'll spend the evening in your room without any dinner.” It's what Mummy would have said if she were here, but he isn't Mummy.

Sherlock's head snaps up, and his eyes narrow to glittering slits.   Mycroft stares at his brother with the force of his borrowed authority, and the world seems to hold its breath in suspense.   Then Sherlock's nostrils flare – it's steak and kidney pie tonight, one of their favourites – and he flounces for the door.

“Nanny!” Sherlock yells.

His tone is far from contrite, but it's a victory of sorts, and Mycroft feels the glow inside flare into something sharper, something fiercer – something like pleasure.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mummy's face is a mask of shock; her knuckles are white where she's gripping her wine glass. Father's flushed and frowning, but defiant. And in the eye of the storm, Sherlock hums happily to himself, foot tapping rhythmically against the table leg. Then Father's chair crashes backwards as he stumbles to his feet, and the glass falls from Mummy's hand. Everything shatters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to: [mamishka](http://mamishka.livejournal.com) for endless discussions; and to [thisprettywren](http://thisprettywren.livejournal.com) and [thesardine](http://thesardine.livejournal.com) for beta duties. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my fault.

Mrs Chadwick drops her battered handbag onto the sofa.   She carries the thing everywhere, and Mycroft suspects it's bulging with the notebooks she uses to take the minutes for the Women's Institute and all the other committees she organises.   She settles her sturdy frame down next to it.   Mycroft hadn't expected her to stay, but he's the host and he has certain duties, so he picks up the tea pot and pours the steaming liquid into Mummy's best china cups.   He doesn't like the autumn, when the old house is chilly and damp, but it's not quite cold enough to light the fire so he wraps his hands around the warm porcelain.   He settles back into the old wing chair.  

The grandfather clock in the corner measure out the silence between them; Mycroft is conscious that he ought to make some sort of conversation.   He can see from her skirt – new, and a better quality of tweed than usual – that Mr Chadwick has started a new job, and he's going to ask about that.   He stops at the last moment, mouth hanging foolishly open.   The pupils at the state school – including that vicious little son of hers – have taught him painful lessons about the virtues of being unobtrusive.   While he can't do much about his name or his accent, he's learnt not to reveal knowledge that he's not supposed to have.

Mrs Chadwick sits there, sipping her tea and showing no signs of leaving.   She must want something, but he's not sure what.   Perhaps she's heard rumours; perhaps she's here to try to learn the truth.   There's one thing he is certain of: anything she finds out will be all over the village by tomorrow.   She smiles at him, her face dissolving into a mass of wrinkles – Mummy says that's the result of too much time spent gardening, and that's why they have a man in once a week.  

“It's not like her to miss a parish council meeting,” she says.   She fidgets with her bag, and slips the worn brown leather onto her shoulder.   “Maybe I'll go and see if she needs anything.”

Panic galvanises his muscles, and Mycroft's half out of his chair before he can stop himself.   “She's sleeping,” he blurts, and it may well be true: he hasn't heard crying for some time now.   He finds he's much more convincing when he doesn't actually lie.

Just as he's sitting back down, Sherlock trudges past the window, curls gusting back from his rosy face.   Mycroft excuses himself, and he reaches the hall in time to see his brother push the door quietly shut behind him, and rest his violin case on the table.   Sherlock deposits his muddy shoes on the rack, then unfastens the toggles on his duffel coat.   He hands it to Mycroft, who's tall enough to reach the hook.   Sherlock produces an ancient, somewhat toothless comb, and wrestles it through his unruly hair.   He glances towards the stairs.

“What are you doing, Mycroft?” he asks in a stage whisper, but he won't meet his brother's gaze.   This neat, subdued little figure seems suddenly alien, and Mycroft heart clenches with the strangest sensation that he's lost his brother as well.

“Mrs Chadwick's here,” Mycroft says.   His brother's face creases with irritation, then he gives a tight little nod.   “If she asks, tell her that Mummy's ill.”

“Mummy _is_ ill,” Sherlock protests.   For all his intelligence, Sherlock still doesn't understand what's going on, and Mycroft doesn't know how to answer.   They stand there, side by side, and Mycroft feels terribly alone.

Sherlock stuffs his hands into his pockets, and drags his feet, but he follows Mycroft into the sitting room.   “You've grown,” Mrs Chadwick says, as though it were something remarkable in a six year old.   The boy's face contracts into a scowl: he has grown, but he can't compete with Mycroft's recent growth spurt.   “You look more like your father every day.”

Mycroft freezes, seeing all his efforts about to be undone.   But his muscles are locked in place, and all the words that might prevent it are clogging his throat.   But there's no shriek, no torrent of abuse, no rush of feet from the room, just Sherlock taking a soft step forwards, and then his forehead is a gentle pressure against Mycroft's back.

Mycroft's throat spasms, the violent swallow clearly audible, and gaze alights on him, bright and eager.   She really has come here to pry, and it serves her right that she's so stupid, so unobservant that she walked straight through the hallway where Father's coats were no longer on their hooks, and his walking stick was missing from the umbrella stand, that she's sitting here without seeing the discoloured patch above the mantelpiece, where the family portrait has been taken down and hastily replaced with a smaller picture.   Mycroft just wants her to leave them all alone, and he wishes that Mummy would get up now – she tells him off when he spends this much time in bed – because Mummy handles people so much better than him.

Perhaps Mrs Chadwick isn't so unobservant, after all, because she's staring at him with something that might be concern – or possibly unease, it's always so difficult to tell – and her cup clashes down into its saucer.

“Well, I'm just down the lane if you need anything,” she tells Mycroft as she stands on the doorstep, buttoning her waxed jacket.   There's a cold wind gusting, and Mycroft shivers.   “Tell her to call me when she's feeling better.”

Mycroft closes the door behind her, and stands there listening to the dull thud of his heart.   He sucks in a shuddering breath.   He turns, to find himself pinned by a pair of sharp blue eyes.   Sherlock's mouth wavers into an unhappy line, and his head bows.

There are tears in Sherlock's voice when he stammers, “I'm sorry, Mycroft.   I've said I'm sorry.”

Mycroft knows his brother is sorry.   He knows it's Father's fault for having the affair, not Sherlock's for blurting it out, but a hot red tide washes through him, clenching his teeth together.   He wants to shake his little brother, to make him realise what he's done with his careless observations.   Then Sherlock looks up at him with soft, wet eyes, and the heat dies, turning cold and hollow.   His sibling isn't to blame: he doesn't know the damage he's caused.   Mycroft can't tell him.

He kneels down so they're face to face.   “It's not your fault,” Mycroft tells him, even though it's not quite the truth.

Sherlock's hand lifts, reaches tentatively towards his brother.   Mycroft wraps his fingers around the bony wrist, and holds on tight.

“When's Father coming home?” Sherlock asks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are going to apply this year, aren't you, dear?”  Mummy doesn't understand why he's delayed this long: academically, he was ready years ago.  Mycroft hesitates.  Mummy frowns, and her fingers tighten on the application form.  “What's stopping you?” she asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to: [mamishka](http://mamishka.livejournal.com) for endless discussions; and to [thisprettywren](http://thisprettywren.livejournal.com) and [thesardine](http://thesardine.livejournal.com) for beta duties. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my fault.

Mycroft pushes the CV to one side.  He's gone through the charade of discussing it, asking questions as though he doesn't already know the answers.  There is something that he doesn't know, one question more urgent than anything he's asked so far, but he can't voice it – not here, not yet.  He leans his elbows on the old mahogany desk: sole survivor of the great purge, when the heavy masculine green of the walls was hidden behind floral paper, and the bookcases were cleared to make way for Mummy's legal journals.  It was the Carmichaels' house party at the weekend, and Mummy isn't back yet, so Mycroft is making use of the study in her absence.

He lifts his gaze.  Samantha Tinsley weathers his scrutiny, upright in her chair, doing her best not to fidget.  She brushes a wrinkle from her suit – her size, but obviously borrowed – and her eyes flick to the photograph on the desk.

“It's a shame that Sherlock decided not to join us,” Mycroft says, lifting the heavy silver frame.  

The picture is barely a month old.  Mycroft prefers the one that it replaced – the one taken before all this started, the one where Sherlock's smile was genuine.  There's a strange, hollow feeling in his chest, and his mouth contracts into a bitter line.  When he reaches out to put the picture back, it thumps against the wood with jarring force.  

Mycroft hefts his bulk from behind the desk, and Samantha shoots to her feet.  “Well, thank you for coming,” he says.  “I'll let you have my decision by the end of the week.”

He ushers her out of the study, and they're halfway down the stairs when a faint snicker jerks his head upwards.  Sherlock's smirking at him over the banister rail. Samantha doesn't smile or wave to the boy, makes no irritating attempt to ingratiate herself, and that's good.  She's used to dealing with difficult children – it's one of the reasons why he's chosen her – and she has a great deal of professional pride.  He'll have to tread carefully.  

Sherlock's behaviour is a deliberate provocation: he's quite capable of eavesdropping without being seen.  Mycroft's gaze locks with his brother's.  He's still unused to dealing with this new, spiteful Sherlock, and his confusion sharpens into anger.  He tries to smother it, but something must show on his face because Sherlock's smile widens, stretching into a rictus grin that bares too many teeth.  It does nothing to hide the bright gleam of pain in the boy's eyes.  The lure of his brother's distress anchors in his own flesh, a physical pull urging him back, and there's a wrenching moment when he almost runs to Sherlock's side.  But Mycroft clutches at the rail for support and staggers down the remaining steps.

The damage is already done – was done the moment Sherlock found his letter of acceptance from Oxford and chose to construe it as a personal betrayal.  There's nothing he can say that will make things better, and for a moment everything is spiralling away from him.  But Miss Tinsley is right behind him, and they're nearly at the front door; he has to keep to his plan.  She's turning to face him, is already extending her hand, when he says, “I'll walk you to your car.” Mycroft is conscious of the listening silence behind him.  This was always going to be a dangerous moment, and he's glad his back is turned.  He steps into the sultry heat of the Indian summer, and when he turns to close the door he catches a glimpse of his brother, shadowed eyes following him from the gloom of the stairwell.  

Samantha has parked on the far side of the old stable block.  Some of the tension sags out of Mycroft's shoulders once they round the corner, safely out of earshot and out of sight.  He notes the car – fifteen years old, and the door creaks when she opens it – and everything he observes confirms the information he's already obtained.  Sweat prickles at the back of his neck, and he slides a finger under his collar, pulling it away from the damp skin.

“One moment,” he says.

They're close to the fence that separates the little orchard from the rest of the garden; the trees are long since stripped of fruit, their foliage golden and crisping in spite of the unseasonable warmth.  Mycroft stares at the ground and crunches the first fallen leaves under the toe of one immaculately polished shoe.  He's prevaricating.  He made his decision weeks ago; the mere execution should be simple, but something makes him hesitate, makes the words stick in his throat.  He thinks of Sherlock, of what will happen when his brother discovers what he's done, and something pierces his chest, knife-sharp and deep.  It can't be guilt: he's doing this for Sherlock's sake, after all.

Samantha's looking at him expectantly; Mycroft clears his throat.  “I may need you to provide certain extra services.”

She thinks he's talking about sex – he sees it in the way her face blanches then flames, in the way she retreats behind the protective bulk of the car door – and it's so predictable, so trivial, that he feels his patience slipping.

He shakes his head, swallowing down his frustration.  “Nothing improper,” he reassures her.  “Nothing unethical.” Although it's illicit enough to send a delicious tingle out along his nerve-endings.

Mycroft backs up a step, but Samantha's knuckles are white where she's clutching the door, and her back is set in a stiff line.  If he were to offer her the job now, she'd turn him down.  She's his best chance of making this work, the most likely candidate he's found during a long summer spent worrying about Sherlock instead of planning his own future.  His heart thumps painfully at the thought that this might go wrong.  

“Sherlock can be difficult,” he says when he can trust his voice.  “Gone are the days when I could simply send him to his room without any dinner.” He neglects to mention the retaliatory hunger-strikes.  “Of course, I'll be back as often as I can, but, while I'm away at university, I won't be able to watch him as closely as I'd like.” It hasn't been easy, learning to be hands-off, but it's the only thing he can do for Sherlock now.  “I'd be happy to pay more than the advertised rate if I thought I'd found the right person for the job.  Considerably more, if it was warranted.” He wonders if a smile would be reassuring, but decides against it.

“What...?” She stops, biting her lip.  She's thinking about her father, about the full-time carer he's needed since the stroke, about how much it's costing her.  He knows the precise amount.  He's tempted to name a price, but that's just the adrenaline, the giddy rush of it clamouring for action, skewing the straight line of his logic.  He won't let it entice him into showing his hand.

“It would put my mind at rest to know that you were keeping Sherlock out of trouble.  Just a little closer supervision than you might normally feel necessary.  And if he gets into any bother … well, there's no need to worry our mother over it.” He barely keeps the bitterness out of his voice.  Mummy's busy; Mummy's never there; as long as Sherlock is looked after, Mummy is more than happy to leave the details to him.  “I will always be there if he needs me.”

Samantha steps out from behind the car door.  She fumbles the keys out of the lock, and stands there with her back to him, her shoulders rigid with tension.  Then she turns and stares at him with hard, considering eyes.  Mycroft's hands are trembling and he clasps them behind his back, fingers tightening against each other to the point of pain.  Samantha takes a hesitant step towards him; Mycroft finally allows himself to smile.

“Think it over,” he tells her as he grasps her hand.  He's certain that she will.

He'll offer her the position on Thursday, and she'll accept the following day.  He can have all the arrangements in place before the week is out.  As he starts to retrace his steps, it occurs to Mycroft that he should feel happier: he's got what he wanted, after all.  But the house is oppressive with Sherlock's anger and Sherlock's resentment, and Mycroft stumbles to a halt.  He turns away, turns back; he passes through the gate that leads into the orchard.  He stands for a while beneath the old apple tree that he used to climb with Sherlock as a child.  A breeze rattles through the browning leaves, and the tree sighs as it sacrifices its foliage to survive the cold days ahead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You mustn't worry,” Mycroft tells her.  “Why don't you go to bed?”  Mummy takes a step towards the door, then hesitates; the firelight lends her face a little of the colour that leached out as the evening's worn on.  Mycroft finds himself glaring as she turns away and does what he asked her to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to: [mamishka](http://mamishka.livejournal.com) for endless discussions; and to [thisprettywren](http://thisprettywren.livejournal.com) and [thesardine](http://thesardine.livejournal.com) for beta duties. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my fault.

The old house is as chilly as ever.  Mycroft picks up the poker and rattles the embers back into life, then he draws his chair closer to the fire.  He swirls the amber liquid in his glass; the brandy slips warmly down his throat, but it does nothing to ease the cold knot of fear in his stomach.  Mycroft isn't an active man, but his muscles are quivering with the urge to get up, to move, to do something.  He's half out of his seat before he reminds himself it won't do any good.  His hand reaches abortively towards his watch before he can restrain it.  He doesn't need to look at the thing to know it's getting late: he can measure the passing time in the slow, relentless tightening of his chest, and the urgent tempo of his pulse.  He gulps another mouthful of his drink.  Sometimes, in the middle of a lonely night like this, he wishes he had someone he could talk to.  He glances at the empty chair across from his, but Mummy went to bed hours ago.  He told her not to wait up; it would be nice if, just for once, she were to surprise him.

There's a pile of newspaper cuttings on the side table, and Mycroft flicks through them with rapid, nervous fingers.  There are tabloids mixed in with the broadsheets, some fresh, some yellowing.  The headlines announce “Hunt for Pizza Delivery Girl Continues”, “Tourists Found Dead on Coastal Path”, and, at the top of the stack, “Tragic Carl Died 'Doing What He Loved'”.  Mycroft frowns.  He knows about Sherlock's suspicions, of course – that's what he pays Samantha for – but the police have little time for the opinions of a thirteen-year-old boy.  Mycroft lets the cutting fall.  He has to close his eyes to blot out the imagined headline: “Search for Schoolboy Ends in Tragedy”.  He heaves in a deep breath, savouring the clean, resinous tang in the air – a Christmas tree stands in the corner, the baubles glinting in the firelight.  

The coals hiss and crackle in the grate, and, at long last, the sound blends with the crunch of gravel on the path outside.  The step is slow and stealthy, but it's firm, it's regular, it's not the sound of someone injured or in pain.  The fear surges through Mycroft, cresting even as it relinquishes its grip, and all he can hear is the blood whooshing in his ears, the ragged working of his lungs.  He must have missed the key turning in the lock and the front door whispering shut, because now there are stockinged feet padding down the hall.

Mycroft twists to face the open doorway and says, “Sherlock.” He waits, staring out into the breathing darkness until finally the shadows move, and sigh, then coalesce into a scrawny figure.  “Come here.”

Another pause, then Sherlock slouches into the yellowish circle of lamplight.  Mycroft's eyes dart up and down his body in frantic exploration, and a quieter, calmer aftershock ripples through him: the teenager is pale and dishevelled, but unharmed.  For the space of a few heartbeats, that's all that matters.  Mycroft simply smiles while Sherlock stands, jaw twitching, enduring the inspection.  Then Mycroft looks more closely, and his hands clench, fingers digging into the arms of the chair, as he confirms his suspicions about what Sherlock was doing.

“What?” Sherlock demands.

Mycroft prises his hands free and folds them in his lap.  “Are you going to tell me where you've been?” The question is redundant, of course – the evidence is plain to see, as Sherlock no doubt intended – but there's a ritual to be gone through in these situations.

“Why should I tell you?” Sherlock snaps.  “You're not my _handler_.”

Mycroft jerks to his feet.  He always leaves his work behind in the office; he never does anything as melodramatic as carrying a weapon, or as gauche as conducting a private phone call where he can be overheard.  And Sherlock has been pointedly uninterested, but, somehow, his brother has worked out the truth.  Even as he wonders how he's given himself away, a dormant sense of pride stirs and stretches within him.  He's spent too long surrounded by inferior intellects, by people who need the obvious pointing out, and his breath leaves him in a rush as he realises how much he's missed his brother.  He pictures what it would be like to forego the rest of this conversation, to reach out his hand to Sherlock instead, but this isn't about what he wants.  This is for Sherlock's benefit.

“I've taken time off to spend Christmas with my family,” Mycroft says.  “Which means I'd like to spend it with all of my family.”

Sherlock's mouth twists into an ugly smile.  “Funnily enough, I've been thinking the same thing.”

Worry gnaws in the hollow of Mycroft's stomach again.  “How was Father?” he asks.

“I can see him if I want,” Sherlock hisses.

“And what does he want?” Mycroft asks, with a shiver of unease.  He should know the answer already, but he has a blind spot where Sherlock is concerned, a place where his logic warps and his conclusions aren't always to be trusted.  It's possible he's missed something, that their father has secretly been in touch, winning Sherlock over, stealing him away.

Sherlock's face crumples.  Mycroft knows he's being selfish, and he doesn't enjoy his brother's suffering, but warmth swells inside his chest.  Sherlock is proud, and more stubborn than ever, but Mycroft recognises disappointment when he sees it.  There will be no further meetings.  Mycroft's knees wobble, and his thighs are trembling; he sinks back into his chair before his sharp-eyed sibling notices his relief.

“How are the trains at this time of night?” He tries to sound stern, but there's a lightness in his heart that he can't keep out of his voice.  Sherlock has come back to him – that's all that matters.

“Fine,” Sherlock mutters, but his eyes break away from his brother's, dropping down until he's studying his feet.

Mycroft ostentatiously consults his watch.  “Although I believe the last train was nearly two hours ago.”

Sherlock's head whips up.  “Got a cab.”

“Can't have been cheap, all the way from London.  And I know that you don't have that sort of money.”

“You've seen to that, haven't you?” Sherlock snarls.  “You and Samantha.  Is that what you do these days: pay other people to do your dirty work for you?”

“Miss Tinsley acts on my instructions.”

Sherlock devours the distance between them in three angry strides, then he's glaring down at Mycroft, cheeks flushed, forehead creasing.  He just won't see that Mycroft has his best interests at heart.  “And does Mummy know about your little deal?”

“Do you really want to tell her?” Mycroft asks.  He's confident that she wouldn't be upset, but his brother still clings to some strange notions about her.

“Me? I haven't done anything, Mycroft.”

Mycroft expects his brother's simmering anger to erupt.  Sherlock's eyes contract into sharp slits, but his mouth stays closed; that's when Mycroft realises how serious this is.  Sherlock is changing, learning to deploy his intellect, not just the blunt weapons of emotion.  Samantha won't be able to cope with him much longer.  Sherlock could slip through his fingers at any time, and the knowledge sets his heart racing again, but he has to stay calm if he wants to avoid driving Sherlock even farther away.

“Sherlock,” he says, and his voice is much softer now.  “You know how dangerous it was to hitch-hike tonight.” So does Mycroft, and the possibilities shudder down his spine.  “This sort of behaviour has to stop.”

“Or else?”

Here it is: the chance to dangle a new lure in front of his sibling.  “Or you won't get into university.” The promised land of independence.

Sherlock snorts.  “That's years away.”

“Which should give you enough time to stop playing truant, and condescend to pass some exams.”

“Exams are boring,” Sherlock sneers.  “And I'm clever, they'll have to take me.”

“Don't be so sure,” Mycroft tells him darkly.  For all his fierce intelligence, the teenager still has so much to learn.

“Well, if I can't go to uni, I'll be a spy.  Like you, but for the other side.  I'll find out all your secrets, and sell them to the Russians.”

“The Soviets are no longer in a position to do anything with them.” Glasnost; the Berlin Wall coming down; Mycroft has it on good authority that the Romanians will get rid of Ceaucescu before Christmas.  All the old certainties are being swept away.

Sherlock subsides into a frowning silence.  The dying firelight transforms the contours of his face into an unfamiliar terrain, catching the cheekbones that are starting to jut through the childish softness.  Sherlock really is changing, outside as well as in.  Mycroft feels an unnameable pang somewhere beneath his ribs, and he has the strangest impulse to keep his brother this way, preserved like one of Sherlock's butterflies, pinned under glass.  But time moves on – Mycroft can't bring it to a halt, doesn't understand why he wants to.  When Sherlock whirls away Mycroft has no idea how to call him back.  By the time he scrambles from his chair, his brother has slipped back into the darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I'm sure you'd like Tuscany,” Mummy says.  Sherlock can't even summon the energy to curl a disdainful lip at this latest suggestion.  Mummy rallies for one last attempt.  “How about Provence?” Sherlock scowls.  What Mummy hasn't realised is that all these places have one crucial failing: they're not London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to: [mamishka](http://mamishka.livejournal.com) for endless discussions; and to [thisprettywren](http://thisprettywren.livejournal.com) and [thesardine](http://thesardine.livejournal.com) for beta duties. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my fault. Special thanks to [queenstardust](http://queenstardust.livejournal.com) for letting me use (and abuse) her [lovely images](http://queenstardust.livejournal.com/13856.html#cutid1) of Sherlock and Mycroft as the inspiration for this chapter.  Go and check out her gorgeous artwork!

It's a hot day – not even the promise of a breeze – and Mycroft is wilting beneath the shade of the pergola.  Mummy looks crisp and cool in her linen blouse.  She's currently as pale as her sons, but her skin has an underlying darker tone, and she tans where they burn.  Sherlock stares at his brother across the table, eyes wide and unblinking, and they sit like that while the bees drone in the lavender, and, down towards the village, the distant rumble of a car drifts up through the heavy summer air.  Mycroft is in no mood for this game – he had his fill of confrontation before he left Vauxhall Cross, and his nerves are still raw.  He picks up his fork and finishes the last few mouthfuls of his stew.  It's his first taste of real Provençal _daube de boeuf_ : with its surprising tang of juniper berries, it's quite different to what he's used to at _La Petite Maison_.  He chews defiantly, determined not to let Sherlock spoil his appetite.  

Sherlock braces his feet against the table and tips back in his chair.  His older brother clenches his teeth, looking determinedly down at his plate as he waits for their mother to intervene.  Sherlock rocks, backwards and forwards, over and over, the cast iron grating against the flagstones until Mummy finally snaps, “Sherlock!” and he rights the chair with a crash.  Sherlock's plump lower lip protrudes, the child's pout looking out of place on his adolescent face.  He has their father's features – all bone, cheek and jaw – and Mycroft wishes there were a little more flesh to soften that uncompromising harshness.

“I thought we might walk up to the old monastery this afternoon,” Mummy says, and there's a hesitant smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.  “The chapel is supposed to have some interesting frescoes.”

It's a patently bad idea, and Mycroft glances at his brother, tensing for the mockery that will inevitably follow.  But Sherlock leaps to his feet, as though he actually intends to go on the walk.  Perhaps he might, to please Mummy.  But Mycroft's stomach is full, the wine is a warm pulse in his veins, and, just for this afternoon, he'd like to be able to relax.  Mummy frowns at the pair of them, her eyes wrinkling at the corners, and the sun seems to have etched the crow's feet a little deeper.  She brushes a greying curl from her face, and Mycroft realises that she's starting to look old.  This is the longest time they've spent together in years, and he supposes that she is at least making an effort.

“Perhaps we can go later,” Mycroft concedes, resigning himself to the inevitable: Sherlock's laughter goading him, sweating and panting, up the hill.

Sherlock's nearly as tall as Mycroft now, although still painfully thin, and he draws himself up to his full height and smirks down at his brother.  “Go on, Mycroft,” he snickers.  “You could do with the exercise, burn off some of those calories.”

Mummy's dark eyes glint.  “This is supposed to be a holiday.  Can't we at least try to act like a civilised family, for once?” Her chair screeches as she shoves it back, and Mycroft can feel his tightly coiled control starting to unravel.  Mummy walks away, just like she always does when things become unpleasant.

Sherlock rounds on his brother as soon as Mummy has retreated into the house.  “Now look what you've done.” There's a kind of taut stillness on his face that doesn't bode well, but Mycroft has had fifteen years of Sherlock making excuses for her, and he can't listen to any more.  “I'm going to get her back out, and –”

“Sherlock! You have no interest in those frescoes, and neither do I.  Mummy doesn't know us, and it's a bit late to start trying now.” It's not entirely her fault: she belongs to a set that is quite incapable of seeing beyond its own smug little world.  And if he were being fair, Mycroft would admit that he's made very little effort to know her, either.  But right now, Mycroft is tired and hot, and he doesn't feel like being fair.  His brother's gaze settles like a pressure between his shoulder blades as he strides away.

Mycroft finds himself down by the pool, and he perches on one of the loungers.  He can't seem to get enough air into his lungs, and his heart is thumping at a rate that's alarming in a man his size.  He sucks in a deep breath, keeps it coming, expanding his diaphragm until the tightness in his chest begins to ease.  He settles back onto the blood-warm canvas.  The image of his sibling's shocked, accusing face intrudes into his thoughts, but he ignores it, and tries to focus his attention elsewhere.  He's brought no documents, will commit nothing to paper, but in his head he's weighing all of the decisions that need to be made before his return.  Mycroft will be taking up his new position when he gets back, the position he's fought so hard to create for himself.  He'll have much greater influence, and all the dangers that go with it.  So many people will be waiting for him to fail – so many more won't be content to wait – and and the anticipation crackles through him at the prospect of the challenge.  

A shadow steals his sunlight, and Mycroft opens his eyes to find Sherlock standing over him.  Mycroft tenses, but the teenager merely stands there, flicking through a book, and for once he seems to be in no hurry to resume hostilities.  He squints up; Sherlock is a dark silhouette against the searing sky, but Mycroft can see him twitch with barely-suppressed energy.  The book snaps shut and thuds onto the lounger: a chemistry text.  It would seem that Sherlock intends to pass those exams next year, after all, and when the first, tentative hope stirs inside him, Mycroft permits himself the luxury of indulging it.

Mycroft is slow, and he barely manages to shift out of the way before Sherlock flops down next to him.  There's a moment's peace, then a flailing of gangly limbs as Sherlock retrieves the book he's lying on, and Mycroft grunts when he takes an elbow to the ribs.  Sherlock wriggles onto his stomach, and finally goes still.  To a casual observer, he's absorbed in his book.  Mycroft is no casual observer, and, anyway, he knows his brother; he can detect the tiny flicker of eyes that tell him he's under covert surveillance.  He props himself up on one elbow.  Sherlock's skin is pink – will be gloriously burnt by the end of the day – but he's already refused the offer of Mycroft's sun cream.  He wonders if Sherlock will peel, and he has the strangest conviction that someone else would emerge from his sibling's shredded skin.  Sherlock's legs swing back and forth with metronomic regularity, and Mycroft sees the new muscle swelling the exposed calves.  He's suddenly very much aware of Sherlock's proximity, the warm, breathing body next to his.

“Mycroft –” Sherlock's legs go abruptly still.  His voice is startlingly deep, rumbling out of his scrawny body, and Mycroft thinks that his brother scares himself with it sometimes.

The soft, pink tip of Sherlock's tongue darts out to moisten his lips, and Mycroft can't tear his eyes away.  The book sighs shut as Sherlock's hand lifts, and pauses, then inches across the gap between them to hover above Mycroft's hand.  Mycroft does his best to ignore the electric tingle of his skin where his brother isn't quite touching him.  Sherlock's fingers close around his wrist, and he must be able to feel the way that Mycroft's pulse is racing, to hear the shallow panting of his breath.  Mycroft can't suppress the tiny shudder that ripples through him.  He swallows, throat suddenly dry, and opens his mouth to speak.

His brother flinches, the book crashing to the ground as he scrambles to his feet.  He turns his head away so Mycroft can't see his eyes, but he can observe the flush staining his neck and the exposed curve of his cheek.  Sherlock fidgets, his chest heaving, hands clenching by his sides, then he stalks off, bare soles slapping against the tiles.  The air rushes into Mycroft's lungs and bursts out of them again with a gasp.  He runs his hand over the hot skin of his face, and tries to tell himself that whatever had just happened, it was merely the result of going too long without physical contact.  Mycroft leans over and retrieves Sherlock's book, then he lets his body sag back onto the cushions.  He runs a trembling finger down the damaged spine, and attempts to smooth the twisted thing back into shape.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft stands there for a long time, the cold weight of fear settling in his stomach.  Then a key rattles in the lock, and a queasy rush of hope sets his hands trembling.  The door opens and a pair of bright, suspicious eyes peer out.  “I'm Sherlock's brother,” he tells the woman, and he sees her flinch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to: [mamishka](http://mamishka.livejournal.com) for endless discussions; and to [thisprettywren](http://thisprettywren.livejournal.com) and [thesardine](http://thesardine.livejournal.com) for beta duties. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my fault.

Mycroft's stomach rumbles; he ignores it. He rolls his shoulders, and tries to stretch the tension out of his neck. His desk is covered with papers and he stares down at them, straining to see the pattern. It's there, he knows it is, but he can't yet see it. Getting distracted by the minutiae is Sherlock's problem, not his – and there he goes again, thoughts of his brother snapping the fragile thread of his concentration. He pushes them back into the dark corner of his mind, where his subconscious frets and whispers that this is his fault. He should have seen it coming: he's been to university himself, after all. He's experienced that sting of disappointment, having his freedom but no one to share it with, watching those longed-for kindred spirits prove to be just as dull as everyone else.

Mycroft's forehead contracts into a frown.  He returns his attention to the glossy surveillance photos, the typewritten reports grudgingly ceded by British Intelligence and the flimsy faxes from the CIA.  He's set a precedent in obtaining the latter, hard-won but necessary.  Mycroft works best with the big picture, which means the more he controls the more effectively he can do his job.  The sooner they realise he can't be constrained by their petty parochialism, the better.  For now, every inch of ground has to be fought for.  Normally, he takes a certain pleasure in the battle, but lately he finds each skirmish draining.  He's only twenty-five, but he feels old.  The last few months have been exhausting, with too many demands on his time and not enough sleep, but he does what he has to when duty calls.  There's one pleasant side-effect, at least: the weight is falling off him.

There's a tap at the door; Mycroft sits a little straighter in his chair.  He needs to appear calm – he needs to be calm – and image is about so much more than an immaculate suit or an impressive office.  Control is a habit, and it starts with one's self.  Atkins flicks a nervous, questioning glance in his direction, and eases the door shut behind him.  

“Sir, it's about a certain surveillance matter.” He doesn't say which one, doesn't have to, and for one agonising moment Mycroft thinks that his heart is actually going to stop.  “The subject has been found.” Atkins hesitates – it's bad news, but not the worst, and Mycroft's heart re-starts with a vengeance, hammering away against his ribs.

His assistant places a manilla folder on the desk and Mycroft fumbles it open, spilling the contents onto the blotter as his shaking hands betray him.  He scans through them, and finds the original report in German: there's always the risk of mistakes if one trusts the translation.  He begins to read – _kidnapping, beatings_ – his stomach roils – _handcuffs, rape, heroin_ – and the text blurs as his mind shies away from the unwanted knowledge, but he steels himself to finish.

“The details,” he demands.

“The German police have been conducting an operation against a suspected people trafficking ring.  The subject was one of several people found when they raided –” Atkins breaks off, swallowing convulsively.  He won't look Mycroft in the eye.  “– when they raided a brothel in Berlin.  They'd been drugged and held against their will.”

There are photographs, and Mycroft picks them up one by one, smearing his brother's image with sweaty fingers as he places them in a pile.  Sherlock glares up at him from the top of the stack, one purpling eye a stark contrast to his corpse-grey skin.  It's Father's face, but Mycroft looks at the gauntness, the fear lurking in the dark eyes, and what he sees is Mummy after the cancer took hold.

“The police believe he was living rough in the Czech Republic when he was abducted.”

Mycroft nods.  The worst of the shock is fading, leaving a sickish kind of relief churning in his guts.  Atkins shuffles his feet, and raises a hand to fiddle with the knot of his tie; apparently he's expecting a more extreme reaction.  But Mycroft has had six months to envisage the worst case scenarios.  Six months to grapple with the reality of his failure.  

All those years of looking out for his brother, and they led to this: Sherlock boarding a train, ostensibly returning home for a visit, and then – nothing.  When Mycroft searched the abandoned mess of Sherlock's room – enduring the badly-hidden relief as the other students realised his brother was gone for good – he was forced to admit that the trail had gone cold.  He waited.  Christmas came and went.  Mycroft saw in the New Year chasing a false lead in Paris.  Mummy got her hopes up on Sherlock's birthday; Mycroft had nothing to say when he phoned her that evening.  Then spring came, and with it the diagnosis, and Mycroft spent his nights sitting dutifully by Mummy's hospital bed, choking on the taste of disinfectant and his own powerlessness.

Atkins clears his throat.  “The German authorities are going to repatriate the foreign nationals.”

The man looks uneasy, and with some justification: this particular use of resources is Mycroft's first serious misconduct.  It's a calculated risk.  He knows he's being monitored; he knows his apparent lack of outside interests must be a cause for concern.  His superiors will be glad to have something to hold over him, and protecting one's family is the most benign of offences.  But Atkins is another matter.  He's sharp enough to know there's something improper about this operation, but he lacks the courage to do something with the knowledge – to show that he can be trusted, or to simply use it as leverage.  Mycroft is going to have to find a replacement.

“Mr Holmes, sir.” The man is still waiting for a response.  “What do you want us to do with the subject?”

Mycroft considers the options.  Back to university, of course, but not straight away.  He reads the documents in front of him again, but they're distressingly incomplete – the German authorities have carried out only the most basic of checks.  

“Test him for all the usual diseases,” Mycroft says.  “Then put him in solitary confinement, and keep him there until you're certain he's clean.” It's the safest thing to do, and the cruellest, but the cold burn of those six long months seems to have numbed something inside him.

And when his brother's clean, when he's released, Mycroft will drive him to the cemetery and tell him how Mummy died.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft studies the surveillance report with a frown: his brother is still frequenting that nightclub.  He could arrange for the establishment to have its licence revoked – a clear enough warning – but it's been a while since he attended to things personally, and maybe a little exertion is required.  He slips into his coat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to: [mamishka](http://mamishka.livejournal.com) for endless discussions; and to [thisprettywren](http://thisprettywren.livejournal.com) and [thesardine](http://thesardine.livejournal.com) for beta duties. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my fault.

The limousine rolls to a halt outside the nightclub.  The tinted windows dull the garish neon; the bullet-proof glass shelters him from the worst of the noise, but Mycroft can feel the faintest thump of bass in the pit of his stomach.  A woman totters out on her three inch heels, revealing far too much flesh for such a chilly night.  The bouncers grin.  A man – not her boyfriend, someone she's just met – hurries after her, flinging a proprietorial arm around her waist, and they giggle their way down the street.  Mycroft grimaces in distaste.  He settles back into the soft leather upholstery, and considers how to distract himself while he waits.  Perhaps he can find a way to salvage the Iraq situation.

Sherlock spots him straight away, his face crumpling into a scowl, and Mycroft half expects him to turn on his heel and disappear back into the club.  Instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets and strides off.  The limo follows in leisurely pursuit.  An alleyway looms a few yards ahead – too narrow for a vehicle, but an easy escape route for a man on foot – and Sherlock's head angles towards the tempting darkness.  Mycroft jolts upright, the order to stop forming on his lips, but his sibling walks straight on.  He must be in a good mood tonight, and Mycroft knows why.  The familiar frustration wells up inside him, tightening his throat, but his voice is calm when he tells the driver to pull over.  Sherlock bursts into the car, along with a gust of drizzly air that makes Mycroft shiver, and he hurls himself down next to his brother.  Sherlock's eyes are huge and dark in the shadows.

“So which is it tonight,” Mycroft asks as the car edges out into the traffic, “ecstasy or cocaine?” He purses his lips as though he's surprised, as through they haven't been through this before.  Sherlock might be careful these days, but he still needs the occasional reminder.

“Do you really want to know?” Sherlock counters, and he has a point.  As long as he stays this side of addiction, as long as he stays safe, Mycroft can't afford to intervene.  Three years haven't softened the memory of Sherlock, snarling at the camera in his cell, fighting and swearing and shuddering through a detox that was Mycroft's decision.  Sherlock, deliriously resentful, returning to university only long enough to set the chemistry lab on fire.  Sherlock, unconscious on the floor of his squat a fortnight later, the needle still in his arm when the police kicked down the door.  Mycroft doesn't want another Pyrrhic victory.  Just the thought of it is enough to revive the panic and bring it fluttering back up into his chest.

“Still determined to squander your inheritance?” Mycroft asks, not because it will do any good, but because there's an ugly swell of desperation in the back of his skull, and sometimes it's more than he can manage to keep it contained.

“I'm twenty-one,” Sherlock snaps, but his anger is a mere reflex.  He's coasting through the calm between the high and the crash that always follows.  “It's my money.  I can squander it on anything I like.”

It's true.  Mycroft can see defeat on the horizon, possibility hardening into probability; he still fights against the looming inevitability, but sometimes it's difficult to breathe under the crushing weight of it.  If this is a game, it's one he can't win, and there are so many different ways for him to lose.

“You're wasting your brain, too.” Mycroft's voice is sharp with disappointment.

“Going to offer me another job?” Sherlock sneers.

“Don't you think it's time you did something with your life?”

Mycroft's expecting a practised taunt, a display of casual arrogance.  He flinches as Sherlock's head whips round, his expression raw and fierce.  It's an echo of a pain he's seen before – only once, before he put the photographs back into the manila folder and locked it away, but it's branded into his memory.

There's bite in Sherlock's words when he demands, “Don't you think it's time you let me live my life?”

Sherlock slumps back, and his breath rasps heavily in the pause that follows.  The air is warming again, thickening with stale alcohol and his brother's sweat, and Mycroft ought to find it revolting.  Sherlock's skin gleams under the street lights; his hair is plastered to his forehead, his shirt glued to the lean torso that Mycroft covets.  There's a distinctive, sated exhaustion in Sherlock's loose-limbed sprawl, and Mycroft has to turn his head away.  He watches the buildings roll past – the seedy hotels, the houses with their steel-gated doors – and he listens to the growl of the engine as they glide through the back streets of King's Cross towards Sherlock's flat.  And, all the while, he tries not to think about why his sibling's promiscuity feels like a greater betrayal than the drugs.

When he looks back, Sherlock is smirking at him.  “You know exactly what I've been doing.”

And – god help him – Mycroft does.  He's been ignoring the evidence from the moment his brother climbed into the car: the rumpled clothes, the reddened lips, all the jigsaw pieces that reveal a picture of Sherlock, cramped inside some reeking toilet cubicle, dropping to his knees and –

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft's nostrils flare, his mouth gulping air that isn't quite enough to satisfy his heaving lungs.  His body is heavy, an impossible weight that drags him down, holding him in place even as he quivers, wire-taut with the need to get away.  To get as far away from his brother as he can.  But Sherlock tilts up his hips and Mycroft's gaze is drawn to the tight stretch of denim across his crotch as he fishes a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his jeans.  Too late, Mycroft's eyes flick up, snagging on Sherlock's sharp gaze.  His stomach turns over and slithers back into place: Sherlock _knows_.  Mycroft's been so careful, has repressed and evaded and avoided for all these years.  Now, one little lapse and the other man has found him out.

Sherlock's watching him, and when Mycroft looks into the dark mirrors of his eyes, all he can see is a wavering image of himself looking back.  Sherlock thumbs the packet open and crosses his legs, and he slips a cigarette into his mouth; perhaps he missed it, after all.  Sherlock sucks in a lungful of smoke and lets it trickle out between his lips, and Mycroft's dimly aware of the creak of leather where he's gripping the seat with white-knuckled force.  Sherlock plucks the cigarette from his mouth.  He eases Mycroft's fingers free, and squeezes them around the little cylinder of paper.  When Sherlock's hand drops to his knee, Mycroft feels the nerve endings ignite all the way up to his groin.  There's a warm electric tingle from shoulder to hip as Sherlock leans in.  The spice of cologne floods his nostrils – his brother's, mixed with another man's, and that makes something in his lizard brain writhe and snarl – and now it's not just panic that's sending the blood pounding through his veins.  Damp curls brush against his temple, and warm breath caresses his ear as Sherlock rumbles, “Are you jealous?”

Sherlock's hand teases higher, up the sensitive flesh of his thigh, and the breath catches in Mycroft's throat.  Of course Sherlock hasn't missed it – his brother knows him too well – and of course he's going to use it against him.  But he's so hungry for that touch, wants to press into it so badly that it's a physical ache that he can feel right down into his bones.  For a giddy, breathless moment, he's going to do it, going to let himself surrender, to let Sherlock win.  Then he clamps his fingers around his brother's wrist, and he drags Sherlock's hand away.

When he thinks he can keep the worst of the tremors out of his voice, Mycroft says, “Don't imagine this changes anything.” He's lost ground, but this isn't the capitulation that Sherlock's pushing for.

If he didn't know better, Mycroft could believe that it was genuine hurt gleaming in Sherlock's eyes and pulling his mouth into an unhappy line.

“Fine,” Sherlock spits, wrenching free and retreating as far as the vehicle allows.  His reflection glares back at Mycroft from the tinted glass; the silence congeals in the distance between them.  

Just like that, they're slipping back into their holding pattern, orbiting each other in an endless circle of threats and defiance – the rehab and the drugs; the frozen assets and the living rough; the blood tests and the indiscriminate sex.  That train of thought judders to a halt: Mycroft simply cannot permit himself to doubt which is the cause and which the effect.

Mycroft stares rigidly ahead over the driver's shoulder.  The blood is throbbing in his burgeoning erection; his body is lagging behind his brain, and he fills his abdomen with deep, steadying breaths while he waits for it to catch up.  The car comes to a stop – a red light and a queue of traffic – and the rain begins in earnest, the fine particles suspended in the air coalescing and falling to spatter on the windscreen.  The outside world blurs and shimmers, and it seems that it's Mycroft's eyes, his brain, that are losing focus.  The wipers lurch into life, the screen clears, and Mycroft still has no idea what to do.  The lights turn green, the line of vehicles begins to move.  Just as the lorry in front pulls away, Sherlock flings the door open.  He's out in one fluid movement, a progression of horns heralding his retreat through the angry motorists behind.

Mycroft looks up, catching the driver's questioning eye in the rear view mirror, and he barks out, “Go!”

Mycroft slides across to pull the door shut, and the acceleration presses him into the leather where the damp heat of his brother's body lingers.  They're through the lights, and gathering speed, but Mycroft doesn't look back.  Sherlock will be long gone by now; he's always been good at running away.  It doesn't matter.  It's not like he has anywhere to go.  Mycroft hisses in pain: the smouldering stub of the cigarette is still clutched between his fingers, and he flings it away from him with a gasp.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to: [mamishka](http://mamishka.livejournal.com) for endless discussions; and to [thisprettywren](http://thisprettywren.livejournal.com) and [thesardine](http://thesardine.livejournal.com) for beta duties. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my fault.

Mycroft hauls himself up out of the sofa and contemplates the disconcerting prospect of how to occupy his free time. He peruses the contents of his bookcase. They're not dusty – the cleaning staff are far too efficient for that – but the volumes are lined up in regimented rows that tell of infrequent handling. His eyes sweep along the spines. _The Wealth of Nations_. Baudelaire. Machiavelli: given to him by Sherlock on his thirtieth birthday. He runs a finger down the embossed leather, and lifts it from the shelf. The thing was intended as a message, but he's never been entirely sure what the other man was trying to say. The folded page corner and the passage underlined in red – the old question of whether it's better to be loved or feared – were a calculated insult. But Sherlock had the strangest look on his face, and he hesitated before handing it over.

The doorbell chimes; Mycroft's stomach gives a tiny anticipatory lurch. He receives visitors rarely, unexpected ones never. He balances the book on the arm of the chesterfield and flips on the monitor. The bell rings again for long seconds, the shrill insistence of it jarring his nerves as he selects the camera covering the front door. The feed is dead. Mycroft's shoes clack on the parquet floor as he does his best to creep into the hall. The agent stationed out in the mews should have alerted him to any visitor, should have stopped them if they posed a threat. He whips out his mobile – no missed calls or messages – and he brings up the emergency number. A fist hammers on the wood. Then nothing, nothing except for the clamouring of his pulse and the rasping of his breath. He slips the phone into his pocket, his thumb poised to make that vital call, and he yanks the door open.

Sherlock grins at him. “I think you've got a problem with your camera,” he smirks, glancing at the remains of the outside light, cable spilling from its half-dismantled cover. “Aren't you going to invite me in?”

Mycroft lives a quiet, respectable life here; he's not going to have a scene on the doorstep. He moves aside and Sherlock brushes past, drawn towards the lights of the sitting room. Mycroft shuts the door. There's the faintest quiver in his hand as he secures the locks: Sherlock never visits. He finds his brother circling the room, eyes sweeping across the dull red walls with their bland Victoriana, moving closer for a better look at the titles arranged on his shelves. There's little data for him to work with, few truly personal items. Mycroft realises that's revealing in itself, and the thought stirs a cold unease within him, although he couldn't say precisely why. But Sherlock's not the only one who knows how to play this game, and Mycroft notes the brownish red spatter on his shirt sleeves, the thin bands of chafed skin above his bony wrists.

“You've been in a police station,” he observes. “Arrested again, I take it?”

“Not this time.” Sherlock's smile turns smug, and the tension in Mycroft's gut twists and pulls a little tighter.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

At any other time, Mycroft's tone would be sufficient to dampen the other man's mood, but tonight Sherlock's face dimples into a smile. It's been a long time since Mycroft's seen that expression of honest, unfeigned pleasure, and something long-frozen inside him starts to melt. An answering smile tugs at his mouth. Sherlock pauses by the antique globe – the one that's been in Mummy's family for years, the one they pored over as children, planning imaginary journeys together – and he sets it spinning, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Mycroft is used to seeing him in various stages of intoxication; he recognises the signs. Then his brother turns to face him and grins – actually grins. Sherlock isn't high. The truth is far stranger: Sherlock is excited.

“You'll be pleased,” Sherlock says, but Mycroft doubts he'll be pleased by anything that Sherlock wants to tell him, definitely not by anything he's come to announce in person. “I've decided to do something with my life. Thought I'd take a leaf out of your book, create a profession of my own.”

“What might that be?” Mycroft enquires, because, in spite of everything, there's a time-honoured ritual that has to be observed.

Sherlock's gaze locks with his brother's in a silent challenge. “I'm going to help the police,” he says.

“You've already helped them,” Mycroft points out, because this can't mean what he thinks it does. “On more than one occasion, as I recall, although you were never formally charged.” But close enough to it that he surely won't ever be allowed inside a police station in any formal capacity.

Sherlock brushes that aside with a wave of his hand. “I've found a Detective Inspector with the sense to listen to me. Thought I'd reward him by helping with a few of his cases.” That smile is threatening to break out again, and if Mycroft were any sort of a brother, he'd be happy for Sherlock.

Mycroft frowns. “You realise that the police won't employ someone with a drug habit?”

“I'll get clean,” Sherlock says blithely. “And it's not exactly an official role.”

His eyes are gleaming, and there's a hint of colour suffusing his skin. He whirls away, pacing with rapid, uneven strides, unable to suppress the energy jittering through him. When he's like this, Sherlock seems capable of anything. Mycroft can see it now, the way this is going to unfold – the understanding officer, Sherlock getting clean and staying that way with the right stimulation – and the knowledge floods like ice water through his veins. It's not a new thing, this fascination with crime. And if being an informal assistant to the police isn't what Mycroft would have chosen for him, it's better than the way that he's been living. Sherlock is going to do what his brother's always told him to do, what he's always wanted him to do, but Mycroft discovers that there's a hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach.

Sherlock casts a critical eye over his stained and rumpled clothing. “Better get cleaned up,” he says. “I'm on my way to a crime scene.” It should be funny, the idea of his brother trying to make a good impression, but the noise that wells up in the back of Mycroft's throat bears no resemblance to a laugh. Sherlock's looking at him, and there's triumph blazing in his eyes. “Just think,” he gloats, “you won't need to worry about me any more. That should make you happy.”

It hits Mycroft like a physical force, a swell of pressure in his head and in his chest: controlling Sherlock has become a habit, an end rather than a means. All this time, he's been concerned about what would happen to Sherlock without him; he's never stopped to think what he would do without Sherlock. And now he's confronted by the dizzying reality of it, and he doesn't know what to do. Somewhere between his brother and his work, Mycroft has forgotten to have a life of his own.

Sherlock is walking away. He's going to leave Mycroft alone, and there's nothing he can do to bring him back. The floor tilts beneath his feet, but he forces his head up. Sherlock stops in the doorway, then turns, his lips curling around a parting shot. Sherlock stiffens. His grin slips, then disappears; it doesn't return. Sherlock's gaze flickers down to the Machiavelli. His eyes narrow as they examine his brother's face, but it's not anger glinting there: it's something that's both softer and sharper, something Mycroft has no name for, something that holds him in place all through the trembling silence that follows.

Sherlock takes a cautious step into the room. Mycroft backs away, but the other man follows in a slow, relentless pursuit. Then Mycroft's spine jars against the bookcase, and there's nowhere left to go. Sherlock's hand slides down, fingers brushing over his wrist. Mycroft flinches, trying to tear himself free, but his sibling tightens his grip and holds him in place.

His brother's lips are warm and moist, and they feel so bloody wonderful that Mycroft can hardly breathe. Sherlock licks his way inside, and even the stale cigarettes taste like heaven. When Sherlock's mouth moves down to his throat, applies hot suction to just the right spot, Mycroft can't hold in his moan. Sherlock pulls back, his lips slick and red, and Mycroft swallows convulsively at the thought of his cock sliding in and out of that glistening mouth. It's been so long, too long, and Mycroft's no good at this. But his brother is, and the fingers of Sherlock's free hand brush against his crotch, tempting him with just the faintest pressure. Mycroft's hard, just from kissing, just from being kissed by Sherlock. He knows this is what the other man is pushing for, that he shouldn't give in, but his control's in tatters and all his hips want to do is thrust. He can't remember why it's important to resist. He presses up into Sherlock's hand, groaning at the squeeze and friction against his erection.

Only for Sherlock to pull back, leaving him thrusting into the empty air. “I really must be going,” he says, eyes bright with satisfaction. “Don't want to keep the police waiting.” Sherlock lets go of his wrist.

Mycroft swallows down the bitter taste of defeat. He sucks in a shaky breath, and tries to shoulder the weight of his humiliation as Sherlock glances towards the door. He's won; there's no reason for him to stay. Sherlock leans in close, and here it comes, the final taunt. But Sherlock leans closer still, and they're forehead to forehead now, both slick with sweat – chest to chest, and his heart thumps in counterpoint to the hammering beneath Sherlock's ribs – groin to groin, and Mycroft's eyes flutter closed at the feel of his brother's erection, snug against his own. Mycroft's head swims – Sherlock wants this, wants it as much as he does – and his legs don't seem to want to support him. But there's the full press of Sherlock's body holding him up, and he lets himself sag against his brother's solid warmth.

Sherlock's voice whispers, soft and fierce, into his darkness – “When I get back, I'm going to fuck you.” - and hope flares inside him.

Mycroft opens his eyes and he finally smiles.


End file.
